


I'm Not Going Anywhere

by bella_my_clarke



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bellarke, Canon, Clarke taking care of Bellamy, Confessions, Does that make sense?, F/M, Forehead Kisses, Nightmares, SOMETHING THAT MIGHT GIVE YOU A HEART ATTACK SORRY, Sickness, afraid of love, bellarke canonverse, bellarke s4, black rain, but it's sorta angsty fluff?, hand holding, kissing? maybe?, not sorry, with some Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-25 09:29:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 19,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7527415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bella_my_clarke/pseuds/bella_my_clarke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the world might come sooner than Clarke expected, if she loses Bellamy. And the world is starting to shake.<br/>-<br/>“I don’t care if you never do anything useful again in your life,” she whispered. “You just...you can’t die.” But of course he could die, she had seen it happen time and time again on the backs of her eyes. He could die just like her father, and Wells, and Finn, and Lexa. Of course he could die, because she loved him. /But how can I stop?/</p>
<p>She swallowed and spoke again, her voice breaking. “Please don’t die.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'm Not Going Anywhere

**Author's Note:**

> Lots of angst, be warned. ALSO I MIGHT GIVE YOU A HEART ATTACK OKAY

Four months.

That was how long they had until the world ended. Four months. Sixteen weeks. One hundred twenty-two days. And Clarke felt like she was wasting all of them.

It wasn’t for lack of trying; she toiled over the problem with every waking moment, theorizing on where the livable four percent could be, working out plans, helping Raven fiddle with ideas and machines, reaching out to other clans. But two months (eight weeks, sixty-one days, countless minutes) had gone by, and nothing had happened. No progress. No plan. And little hope.

Bellamy told her otherwise, often, but she knew it was more to comfort than assure. Still, she took his comfort whenever she could get it; it seemed to be the only thing that got through to her anymore.

Clarke slipped into the med bay early, before dawn had stretched out and woken the camp with its long, soft fingers. She hadn’t even slept yet, not that sleep was a comfort (there were demons on the backs of her eyelids, more than she realized). Almost reflexively, she checked over the supplies, making sure it was all where it needed to be and making a mental note of what was low in stock. The med bay was crammed to bursting point – people’s bodies had been severely neglected while their minds were in ALIE’s control and it wasn’t erased when the City of Light was – but there was nothing Clarke could do for them at the moment except let them rest, so she slipped out and continued her run.

Firewood: plentiful. Weapons: safely stowed, ready for use. Ammunition: a little low, but lately need was low as well. Food storage: technically up to standards, but more would be better (better safe than starving). Water storage: low. Clarke bit her lip and sunk onto one hip as she pondered this. It made her so nervous to have such a dwindling supply of water stashed safely inside camp. They hadn’t done much gathering yet, thanks to protests who said there were plenty of water resources nearby and it would only waste energy, and it could have disastrous consequences later on. _Black rain will come first. There will be no drinkable water. Precancerous lesions will form._ ALIE’s voice haunted her.

When the rest of the camp rose, Clarke was looking over old maps of the world and trying to think of where the livable areas could be. They had already discussed it often, and Clarke had gone to Raven countless times, but so far they only had guesses, speculations. It bothered Clarke almost as much as the water problem.

It was Bellamy who found her. She wasn’t surprised; he always seemed to know where he was, like there was a magnet drawing him to her. (She felt that way herself, sometimes, especially when he was away.) “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” she said distractedly, still searching the papers.

He looked over her shoulder, inspecting the maps himself for a moment; she could feel his breath on her ear. “You know what would really help with this?” he said.

Clarke breathed out a sigh. “What?”

Bellamy leaned away; she felt, strangely, a little colder. “Food. Come on, we’ll need breakfast if we want to get through the day.”

She turned to face him. “Actually, I’m not really—”

“Did it sound like a question to you?” he asked. “Because I didn’t phrase it like one. Now seriously, I know you keep skipping meals, and the last thing anyone needs is one of our leaders to die because she, a doctor, wasn’t keeping up on her health.”

Clarke thought about arguing for a moment, then realized he was right and quietly followed him out to the cafeteria. They sat with Raven and Monty, who were the only ones already up, and slowly picked at their food. It tasted grainy and didn’t fill Clarke’s stomach quite right (she couldn’t tell if her nausea was from wrong food or lack of food anymore, only that it had been there for almost a week now), but she ate it anyway, because she knew she needed to and her friends would put up a fight if she didn’t. When they finished, there was a few minutes of small talk meant mostly for stalling; they’d soon be whisked away for more important things than friends.

It was Clarke who got taken away first, unsurprisingly; one of the patients was acting up and she was needed. She would live in med bay nowadays, if there wasn’t the impending doom hanging over everyone’s heads. There was always something wrong down there, always someone who was getting worse or a treatment that wasn’t working; always an extra set of hands needed. There was no resentment or frustration in her for that – she was helping people when she worked, she was _doing_ something – but there was always a cold, hollow ache in the root of her chest when she was called upon; the presaging of an end. Sometimes, when things got bad, she could feel her back prickling, like someone was trying to burn a mark into her skin. _My back’s not big enough._

Clarke had just finished up and was heading down the corridor, thinking to go back to the maps for a few moments, when she heard the screaming.

She was sprinting before she even realized it, but she couldn’t get there fast enough, not with everyone else determined to get there first. The shrieks were coming from outside, and horrid thoughts turned to cannonballs that flung themselves across her chest, trying to break through her rib cage. _Is it Grounders? Have they broken the treaty? Has a new threat come? Are they being taken? Slaughtered?_

Just before the mass of spectators got to the entrance, they were stopped by a separate mob of people – the ones who had been screaming – running inside. At first Clarke couldn’t see what was wrong with the people blocking her view, but then there was a gap and she saw. Their skin looked like it was _smoking,_ and their clothes had singes and holes, and when she looked outside, Clarke saw the reason for it all—the fat drops falling from the sky, encompassing the world in night even though the day had just begun.

_Black rain will come first._ There’s not enough to help all these people, she thought, but pushed the thought away. She couldn’t think that, not now.

Chaos was everywhere, in every form—moans of pain like shattered glass in people’s mouths; scuffles and scrapes and bumps echoing off the bodies; a slow tearing in her heart like she was carefully being pulled in half. And yet she worked through it. These people needed her help and she wasn’t going to be distracted, so she planted her feet, a rock in the rushing river, and went to the first patient.

“How long were you out there?”

The woman was at least twenty years older than Clarke, yet she looked at her like an elder. It made Clarke feel equal parts proud and terrified. “Not long. As soon as the drops started falling, we were all running to get inside.”

Clarke nodded, grateful. She didn’t like the idea of someone being out there for long. There weren’t many burns on the woman’s skin, but they each needed treatment, so Clarke put ointment on them and wrapped them (using sparing amounts of everything), then moved on to the next person. It was like clockwork—quick glance over their injuries, ask for length of the exposure and how they felt, clean and bandage, repeat. She moved quickly, knowing the faster she bandaged them, the faster they would be out; they couldn’t afford to have this many people in med bay for long.

Around five minutes after the first patients had entered, another wave came. This one was smaller, composed of twelve sentries, and the room seemed to be pushed back by a wave when they entered. They looked...well, they looked awful. Holes in the armor and vests and clothing, patches of burns on their bodies, seared and blackened hairs, and the sort of look in their eyes that made Clarke even more grateful than before that she had not had to experience the black rain firsthand.

Finishing the bandage she’d been putting on the current patient, Clarke said, “You’re all set,” and went to the group quickly, feeling her heartbeat rising precariously into her throat.

“What happened?” Abby asked, getting to them first.

“On patrol—when it came,” Miller said, his breathing hitched. “Thankfully we weren’t far away, so we just ran for it, but—still takes time. To get back to camp.”

Both of the Griffins nodded, frowning. “Well,” Clarke said, “come on, we need to get you all patched up.” She took Miller first, leading him slightly to the side, just in front of the doors (there wasn’t much space in here), and started cleaning the wounds she could get at before helping him slip off his vest and shirt so she could make sure there was nothing else to heal. There were a number on his back and neck, which she worked with as best she could, but they were running out of ointment.

To avoid Miler asking about anything she didn’t want to answer, she said, “No offense to you at all when I say this, but I’m eternally grateful Bellamy wasn’t on patrol today.”

Miller stiffened under her hands as she finished up his back; she couldn’t see his face, but she could almost imagine how it looked. “Clarke. He was.”

Clarke’s fingers tightened around the damp cloth and water dripped down Miller’s back like rain, or tears. “What?”

“He was on the patrol, Clarke,” Miller said, turning to face her. He looked so sad.

For a moment Clarke’s hand remained hovering in the air, then it fell limply at her side. “No,” she said, but it was a whisper of a hope. “No, he told me yesterday he wasn’t leaving. He was supposed to stay back and help with planning.”

Miller sighed; it was a heavy sigh, the sort that could push her into the ground. “One of the boys wasn’t feeling great and Bellamy volunteered to go for him.”

_Of course he would,_ Clarke thought, almost bitterly. Then she felt the fear flood back in, and words tumbled out of her mouth. “But if he went out...where is he? Why isn’t he in the med bay?”

Jaw locking, Miller averted her gaze slightly. “He went back.”

She stared at him, unwilling to comprehend. “What do you mean, he _went back?_ ”

“Someone had fallen and he wouldn’t leave them behind. He said he would be right there....” His voice trailed off, too open-ended for Clarke. Too many words remained unspoken, too many thoughts pushing into her brain.

“Miller,” she said, almost gasping. Why wasn’t any air going into her lungs? She felt like she was heaving. “Tell me came back.”

His eyes were glossy, glittering, when they met hers. Like stars, before they burned to dust. “I’m sorry, Clarke.”

Clarke took a stumbling step backwards. Four months. Four months until the world ended, but hers had just shattered.

-

The air was still as Clarke stood at the edge of the entrance, leaning over the precipice into the fog of black rain still pouring down like tar and acid. She could feel that tug she’d felt before, that magnet pulling her to Bellamy. If she went out now, she’d find him, she knew she would. All she had to do was take a step....

“Clarke?”

Breathing in deeply through her nose to compose herself, Clarke turned and saw her mother five feet away, looking deeply concerned. “Yes?”

“You’re needed in medical again, sweetie,” Abby said—softly, like she was avoiding breaking bad news. _Far too late for that, isn’t it._

“He’s out there,” Clarke murmured, voice as trembling and hollow as her bones.

“Clarke, honey,” Abby said, reaching out a hand. Instinctively, she flinched away from the touch, then felt the familiar burn of shame. She didn’t want to be upset at her mother.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? She didn’t want to feel anything at all.

“You can’t go out there, Clarke, you know that,” Abby said, stronger now. “Not with the rain. It won’t do any good to either of you. We just have to wait.”

“For what? Him to _die?_ ” Clarke spat. She sounded – felt – equal parts furious and helpless. Abby was—she _hated this,_ but Abby was right. It would be silly, nonsensical, to go after him now. But what if he was dying out there? What if he was scared and alone? How could she just leave him like that?

“Oh, Clarke,” Abby said, and suddenly Clarke was in her arms, shaking and fighting back tears. It was comforting, but it also reminded her too much of distant memories—guards with expressionless faces, Jaha’s cold voice, her dad’s final smile before they blasted him into the abyss. Abby’s arms around Clarke as she broke down, unable to stand or think or _breathe._

Lips were near her ear. “We’re going to get him back, okay, Clarke? Bellamy’s a tough one and you know that. We all know it. The moment the rain stops, we’ll find him, and we’ll bring him home.”

She let the words sink into her, slipping between the cracks into her bones, a constant rhythm to replace the echoing emptiness of her heart. _Bring him home. Bring him home to me._ Then, without feeling much better, she followed her mother to the med bay and got back to work.

Several hours later, when the world was nearly black and everyone had fallen asleep, Clarke was at the entrance again, a thick jacket tucked around her and a ragged, snug beanie over her hair. She had waited impatiently for a long time, first in Bellamy’s room as if he would apparate to her, then going to listen to the pitter-patter of the rain and the soft hisses the grass made, when it had finally come to a halt. Her mother’s promise echoed dully in her head. _The moment the rain stops, we’ll find him, and we’ll bring him home._

She leaped into the darkness.

It was about five seconds later when she realized how little of a plan she had; she had no light source, no record of where he would be (although she knew the approximate location the patrol had been when the rain hit), and no way to defend herself if hostiles came. Despite this, she kept going; she wasn’t going to turn her back on Bellamy, and she wasn’t going to lose him. Not now, not ever. She tread softly and used what light she could to direct herself, occasionally calling out his name softly (she was worried what would happen if spies or hostiles in the area heard her best friend’s name being called in the middle of the night).

As she slowed to take a moment of rest, she heard the soft yet distinct sound of muffled footsteps nearby. “Bellamy?” she called, a little louder than she perhaps should’ve. Then the noises got louder, without a response, and she felt a flicker of fear. She stepped with careful precision in the opposite direction of the noise, which was coming from her right, and forced her breathing to be slow and imperceptible. Oh, how she wished she had brought a weapon of some sort....

A figure appeared in her periphery and, startled, she stumbled back a step, turning to face it. At first she couldn’t make out any features, but then they stepped forward and she could see a strong jawline, chocolate brown eyes, a mop of messy dark curls, and she felt her heart beat again.

“ _Clarke?_ ” Bellamy asked, even more surprised than she was. “How—”

He didn’t finish, because by that point Clarke had flung herself into his arms, scrabbling to pull him closer as she heaved out in relief. He secured her within the embrace, breathing hard, as she cradled the back of his head in her hand and breathed in his scent deeply and buzzed with the fact he was alive.

Alive and _hurt,_ she remembered a moment later. Within the heavy breathing and clutching arms, Bellamy was wincing in pain.

She pulled away, still awestruck by him and his presence, and said, “How hurt are you? Were you out for long before you found shelter? Why didn’t—”

“Clarke,” he said urgently, completely ignoring her questions, “what are you _doing_ here?”

Clarke blinked, a little taken aback. “Coming for you.”

“In the middle of the night, when the rain could start up again at any moment? And without any light or weapons, I see.” Even in the dim light, she could see his frustration and disapproval, like shadows dipping in and out of his face.

“Oh, like you wouldn’t have done the same,” she argued, because he would. He _had._

“You could’ve gotten yourself _killed,_ Clarke,” he hissed. Then, unexpectedly, his face softened and his fingers brushed over her cheeks searchingly. “You didn’t get hurt at least, right?”

Clarke had the distinct desire to close her eyes and lean into his touch. “No, I’m fine.” She could feel the dried cuts on his palms and grabbed his wrists, gently pulling them from her face. “But you clearly _aren’t_ fine, so we need to get back to camp. Where’s the person you went back for?”

Bellamy swallowed. “He was running and not watching where he was going – not that you could see in that black haze – and I tried to catch up or stop him, but....” His eyes wouldn’t meet hers. He seemed ashamed. “The cliff edge found him before I did.”

It took a few moments for Clarke to find any words, stunned into silence. Then she grabbed his hand and squeezed until he looked at her. “You did what you could. Now let’s go home.”

For once, he didn’t argue, and they headed back at a much quicker pace—Bellamy had a gun slung around his back and besides, it was hard to fear anything with him at her side. They crept through the hallways and into the med bay, which was a little less packed but still crammed past the limit. Clarke led him into a back corner, where they would be less worried about waking someone up, got a light, and studied him properly for the first time.

In some ways, it was better than Clarke expected, considering he could’ve been dead. But mostly, it was just worse than she hoped. His whole body seemed to be bruised and cut and burned, not to mention his hair and his clothes. She physically ached at the sight of him in such pain, especially when he seemed determined to bear the burden like it was nothing. If she could’ve healed him with her touch, she would’ve held onto him and never let go, never let anyone or anything hurt him again.

But that was just wishing. Bellamy was hurting _now,_ and it was up to her to fix him.

She cleaned him up as carefully as she could, pretending each dab of ointment and graze of a cloth was a brushstroke on the canvas that was Bellamy Blake. A swish across his face, over the scars on his cheekbones. Inward spirals in his palms, burnt black and endless. Meaningless patterns over his arms, redrawn and retraced until they become something else entirely—a masterpiece.

It wasn’t until she’d finished when Clarke realized Bellamy had kept his gaze on her the whole time. This fact made her feel warm, but she wasn’t sure what kind it was yet. Right now, it felt like the sort of warmth that made her insides tingle and flutter, the sort that made her brain fuzzy. The sort that made her wish they were closer.

“Um.” Bellamy swallowed. “Should I...I should be going to my room now. Right?”

Clarke scowled, and the warmth dissipated into exasperation. “Your room? Bellamy, you need to stay here, in the med bay.”

Bellamy’s eyebrows furrowed. “Why? You’ve already bandaged me up, and everyone else who came in contact with the rain has gone elsewhere.”

“Yes, well, most of them were in the rain for all of ten seconds, and the longest were five minutes. Who knows how much longer you were stuck out there, being overly selfless as usual. We don’t know what this rain does yet, and I’d rather have you here when – if – something happens.”

He bristled, though she wasn’t sure why. “But—”

“You’re staying here, where you’re safest,” Clarke said with her strongest voice, pointing a finger at him firmly to add to her point. “End of discussion.”

It took a few moments in a stare down, but Bellamy eventually softened and caved to her will. “All right, Clarke. But as soon as I’m cleared, I’m out, okay? The space is needed.”

Clarke nodded, though she felt almost angry, or frustrated, or something. What was with him sometimes? Did it come naturally to him, the utter selflessness that extended to all parts of him and every aspect of his life? Did he even notice how incredibly rare it was to be that generous, that kind, that good without thought? How was it he could detect the slightest problem with her and have the charity to offer himself for someone else, but he couldn’t even see how much she cared about him?

Clarke tucked the thoughts away, forcibly, and took Bellamy to a bed a little farther away from everyone (or as far as he could get), one she had forced Abby to keep open during the chaos of the day. “Get some rest,” she said as he shifted onto his back. “You deserve it.”

She turned to go, but his hand grabbed hers, calloused and warm and gentle. Quietly, she faced him. “Thank you,” he whispered, and in the near-dark of the nighttime med bay, his dark eyes seemed to reflect every ounce of light the room had to offer; stars sparkling in his eyes, hovering over the constellations of freckles on his cheeks. “For coming after me. I didn’t say it before, and I should’ve.”

A soft smile found its way across her features, and she squeezed his hand, like a heartbeat against her fingers. “I’ll always come for you, Bellamy,” she whispered. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

“See you in the morning,” he echoed, and he was watching her like there was nothing else he wanted to look at ever again, even when she had slipped his hand from hers and walked away.

It wasn’t her own room Clarke went to that night. Even if she had wanted to be in that still-unfamiliar space, she couldn’t have; when Abby mentioned there were simply not enough beds for the night, she had offered up her room as a place to keep a few more aching people.

No, Clarke went somewhere she would feel safe.

His touch seemed to be on everything in the room as soon as she entered, from the tidiness to the way the whole place seemed soft and welcoming to the book still opened on his chair. She smiled faintly at this sight and closed the door behind her, heading to the bed. There were no clothes she had to change into, but she knew there would be no chance of sleeping if she stayed in the thick, heavy, chafing clothes she’d adopted on her search for Bellamy, so she took a risk and dug through his drawers. Quickly she found a smaller shirt that would somewhat fit her (actually, it went halfway to her knees, but it was the best she had) and settled to just wear that for the night.

When she slipped under his covers and rested her face against the pillow, Clarke breathed in deeply. The scents she associated with him – wood smoke and gun powder and sweat and pine – were strong and everywhere, even on the shirt. She wondered if (hoped) the smell would cling to her skin the way his touch did sometimes, or his words, like he was slowly seeping into her bones.

For the first time in maybe a long time, she fell asleep quickly.

-

Clarke woke to her legs tangled in the blanket, dots of perspiration on her forehead. Her heartbeat was crawling up her throat. Sharp, bitter-tasting memories like bile filled her mind, of Bellamy burned and bleeding and not breathing. Weakly, she buried her face into his pillow, drawing in long breaths to fill herself with his scent and remind herself he was still here, he was alive, it was just a dream. Just a nightmare.

That didn’t stop her from running to the med bay the moment she got her own clothes on, though.

It was earlier than she’d realized, which meant most everyone was still sleeping, but Bellamy – of course – was awake and sitting up. He caught her gaze the moment she came in, and his eyes seemed to light up a little. It made her warm, like she was still tucked in his blankets.

Swallowing down any wayward thoughts, Clarke picked her way over to him and looked over his face, keeping her expression as doctor-like as she could. “What’s hurting?”

He shrugged. “Everything, but I’ve had worse.”

_Translation: everything hurts bad enough I don’t want you to know about it._ “Well, I can’t do much right now, since the bandages haven’t been on long enough, but I wanted to check in on you anyway.” She paused, placed a hand as gently as she could right above his knee. “Do you want food?”

Bellamy swallowed hard, seeming distracted for a moment, before nodding stiffly. “Yeah, that’d be good. I’ll come with you to get some.”

“No, you won’t,” Clarke said, patting his leg, “because you are hurt and I am not. I’ll get it for you. If you want, though, I can bring it back here and eat by you so you’re not alone.”

“That’d be nice,” he relented softly, catching her gaze, then added, “but I still want to go with you. It’s stuffy in here.”

“Better get used to it,” Clarke shrugged, forcing herself to swallow a smile. Then she turned to go. But, of course, she could hear him following right after her like a puppy, so she turned and started to say, “Bellamy, _really,_ you need to—”

She didn’t finish, because at that moment Bellamy collapsed, crumpling like a forgotten marionette puppet and hitting the ground hard. Immediately she was down on her knees beside him. An ache shot up her legs at the point of impact, which she ignored. “Bellamy. _Bellamy._ ” Her voice was desperate and too loud, too sharp, but she couldn’t even think about it. She grabbed at his shoulder, shaking him, and he shifted, starting to force himself up onto his elbows, and then his hands. His arms were shaking, like they were straining under his weight.

“Bellamy?” Clarke whispered, voice trembling, and he started to lift his head when a horrible hacking sound from somewhere down his throat and he coughed up something red and sticky. _Blood._

He looked at her at last, and her heart split in half. Bellamy was terrified. “I’ll go lay down.”

Despite everything, Clarke nearly snorted. She touched her hands to his face briefly, completely uncaring to the blood there because she just had to make sure he was there, then strenuously got him to his feet and back onto the bed. His breathing was heavy and shallow.

“Bellamy, what did you do?” she murmured after a few moments, not sure what she was supposed to say, or do, or _think._

He managed a small lift of his shoulders. “I attract bad luck, apparently.”

She frowned and squatted beside him, stroking hair away from his face. “Well, then I’m going to find that bad luck and kick it in the face. I’ll figure out what’s wrong and I’ll fix it, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, but he looked too afraid, too unsure.

“I’m going to fix you, Bellamy,” she said firmly. She wanted so bad to hold him, to kiss his forehead, _something._ But she didn’t know what was wrong yet, and there was no point in putting herself at greater risk of being contagious. “I promise.”

With that declaration, she checked all his vitals for signs of a problem, being extremely careful not to hurt him further and having to occasionally stop as he hacked and shook (which wasn’t doing wonders for her already fragile calm). There were no visible markers of anything wrong, or at least nothing that wasn’t wrong before, but she knew how much could be wrong internally. Hemoptysis usually meant infections, problems in the lungs, or cancer, all of which could be too much for them to handle properly.

Eventually, she decided she had done enough (well, okay, _Bellamy_ told her she had done enough, and then practically forced her to stop fawning over him, but same thing), and brought a stool to his bedside. It was probably unsafe to leave now, she figured, and there was no way she could leave him anyway, so she tucked her arms and head against his side, closed her eyes, and let the relieving rhythm of his heartbeat slow hers so she could pretend, for a few moments, nothing was wrong at all.

It wasn’t until an hour later when she could do anything but lay there, semi-asleep, with Bellamy’s hand running over her hair in soft, repetitive motions. Then Abby came in, and a flurry of questions were thrown at Clarke, most of which she couldn’t answer. All she knew was Bellamy had gotten sick, maybe from the rain or something he stumbled upon in the woods. Any ideas of diagnosis, treatment, contagion, or anything else important were fat question marks hanging over everyone’s heads.

Clarke held Bellamy’s hand the whole time they talked, sensing he needed her comfort just as much as she needed his.

“For now everyone’s going to have to stay in this room, since we don’t know if it’s contagious or not,” Abby said, her words slightly muffled by the mask she’d put over her face, just in case. “Your job is to watch over everyone, do what you can but be careful. Don’t let it spread if it doesn’t need to. And _you,_ ” she said, turning her gaze to Bellamy. Clarke could feel him stiffen and squeezed his hand. “Your job is to rest and take it easy and get better. Fair enough?”

The two nodded and Abby left, closing the doors behind her firmly. Clarke felt bad for her mom; she and Marcus already had so much on their plate, and now they were down two leaders and one doctor, a possibly contagious sickness had come into the area, and all the terrible effects the black rain could have—ruining food and water supplies, causing diseases, preventing them from leaving when/if they needed to. But she couldn’t seem to wish she was anywhere but in the med bay, watching over Bellamy.

For hours all Clarke did was replace bandages, monitor fevers, check herself for any symptoms, watch over Bellamy (whose exhaustion had finally gotten the best of him), repeat. It was comforting—no, that wasn’t the right word. It was numbing, and at the moment, it was all Clarke wanted to feel.

-

Bellamy’s health rose and fall as the days went on, and Clarke found herself unable to care about anything unless it connected to him. He was still coughing up blood on occasion, and he refused to eat or drink much. It made her ache watching him so weak; made her feel so helpless when he shook and heaved and she could nothing but be by his side until it ended. “It’s enough,” he kept telling her after she expressed her frustration. “Being here is enough.”

She wouldn’t tell him so, but it didn’t feel like enough. Not after all he’d done for her. Not when there had to be _something_ she could do that wouldn’t fade hours later.

When the night came, Abby came to take Clarke away, per usual. Also per usual, Clarke argued. “What if he has a seizure or something in the middle of the night, or he’s coughing up too much blood, or he needs something?”

“He was fine the last four days, now come on,” Abby said, a little impatient.

_He hasn’t been this_ bad _in the last four days,_ Clarke thought, but she didn’t say it aloud; didn’t like what accepting his downfall could mean. Instead, she clenched her jaw and turned to Bellamy. “Are you sure you’re going to be fine? I am more than okay staying here tonight.”

Bellamy nodded. She knew he would, but she always asked anyway. “Can I have a minute then, Mom?” The words were for Abby, but she kept her gaze on Bellamy.

Abby sighed, but the use of ‘mom’ had apparently touched her. “Bellamy, have her out in ten minutes, okay? I need to sleep.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, like he were a boy getting told his girlfriend’s curfew.

_Girlfriend._

Clarke blinked and sat back down in the stool.

“Did you want to talk about anything in particular,” Bellamy asked, “or were you just stalling?”

She hummed in response and rested her head on her hand, keeping her elbow propped up on the bed just inches from his skin. “Tell me a story.”

One of his eyebrows rose precariously. “What sort of story?”

“I don’t know. You’re the history nerd, not me. Tell me about mythology.”

He smiled and snorted a little, the closest thing she’d ever seen to a laugh. Oh, how she wished he would laugh for real. “You think I can summarize even one mythological story in less than ten minutes?”

“No,” she agreed, “but you can finish it later.” She collapsed her face into her arms and mumbled, “Just give me a bedtime story. Like you did with Octavia.”

Near her arms, she felt his chest stiffen slightly, then he relented. “All right. A bedtime story.” His chest rumbled with the gravel of his voice; the sensation of it, so near her face, tingled across her body. “It starts nine years after the Trojan war, when the Greek army sacks one of Troy’s allied towns, Chryse. During this, they capture Chryseis and Briseis, these two maidens....”

The ten minutes ended too quickly, with Bellamy shaking Clarke to make sure she was awake (as if she could fall asleep this close to him) and softly sending her off. She went grudgingly, only when he reminded her, “Hey, I’m not going anywhere. See you tomorrow.”

Her mom hadn’t waited, as she supposed, so she went right to Bellamy’s room, which had gotten considerably messier since she’d moved in. Clothes littered the floor, drawers hung open, and a number of random papers had been strewn over the chair. She rummaged through his stuff until she found her favorite shirt of his – the old blue one from their drop ship days, faded and worn and holey in a few places and much too thin to wear in public – put it on with some boy shorts she had collected, and collapsed into bed. It didn’t smell quite like Bellamy anymore, but she had the real scent still clinging to her so she didn’t mind. She shut her eyes and pulled the blanket tight around her, letting herself fantasize for just a moment of strong arms around her waist and a freckled face tucked into the back of her neck before she fell asleep.

Clarke woke the next day a little later than usual, probably because for the first time she hadn’t had a nightmare about Bellamy, but she took it as a blessing. (After all, when was the last time she’d gotten more than a few hours of sleep at night?) She languidly got into new clothes, made a half-attempt to fix her hair before giving up and putting it half-up, and went to fix the sheets (for once), to see they were already made. Blinking, she stared at it a moment, then realized she must’ve done it when she’d first gotten out of bed. _I really need to focus better,_ she thought absently, and trod to the med bay.

Bellamy was awake when she got there – he was always awake, and she was getting worried he wasn’t sleeping at all, despite what he told her – and smiled brightly. She gave him one in return and plopped onto her stool. “How are you feeling?”

“Actually, a lot better,” he said, like he was surprised about it. “I actually slept last night.”

Tucking his accidental confession away for later, Clarke breathed out in relief and said, “That’s good.” She touched his hand briefly, then gasped in shock at how cold it was.

“What is it?” Bellamy asked, seeming immediately nervous.

“Your hand is _freezing,_ ” she said, and he actually smiled a little. She took this reaction as a good sign and picked up his hand, holding it between hers. “Goodness, Bellamy, did you keep it on ice or something?”

“Maybe my hands are just naturally cold, Clarke,” he suggested with a half eyebrow raise.

“Nah, there’s definitely something off about this one,” she said, trying to sound authoritative to no avail, and rubbed it between her hands like she was kindling a fire. She definitely felt sparks, at least, but those were probably more from having his skin on hers, and the way he was looking at her, like she was the only thing he knew how to see. “Maybe—”

She was interrupted by Abby, who had come rushing in. Without preamble, she blurted, “There’s no more water to gather.”

Clarke froze, and she would’ve dropped Bellamy’s hand if he hadn’t squeezed hers tightly. “What?” she said, barely a murmur.

“The rest of the water is tainted permanently, and we only have maybe a few weeks’ worth in our stores. We need to go, _now,_ and prepare for...whatever’s next.”

Clarke swallowed hard and looked at Bellamy, whose eyes were wide. It made her heart hurt. Turning back to her mom, she said, “Give me one minute.”

Abby scowled. “Clarke, we don’t have _time_ —”

“ _One minute,_ ” Clarke growled, and with a huff and some muttered comments about stubborn children, Abby stormed out.

Once her mother was out of sight, Bellamy sat up and she didn’t stop him, even though he was supposed to stay laying down as much as possible. They looked at each other for a long moment, hands still loosely clasped, when Clarke murmured, “It’s my fault. I didn’t press the matter hard enough.”

“Hey,” Bellamy scolded, frowning, and stood, which forced her to take a step backwards. To her surprise, he drew her to him, folding her against his chest with a hand cradling her head and the other an anchor on her back. Against her hair, he murmured softly, “You did what you could.”

“There’s always more to do,” she replied into the crook of his neck, sighing heavily.

His lips seemed to linger on her hair for just a moment, then he pulled back and rubbed her arms. “We’ll get through this,” he said firmly, willing her with his eyes to believe him.

And she did. It was stupid to, maybe, but watching him, all she could think was how much she believed in him. How much she trusted him. How much she loved him.

Without even thinking about it, her hands went to his face, framing his cheekbones, his jawline, like they were made of glass. Bellamy froze, eyelashes fluttering in surprise, but didn’t pull away, and she was grateful. “I don’t want to lose you,” she murmured, testing how the words felt so close to his face.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said in reply, his fingers very lightly on her sides.

Clarke pulled his face down to hers and rested their foreheads together. _I hope you’re right,_ she thought. _I love you too much to let you go._ Tentatively, she tilted her face so that her lips barely brushed his, and when she felt Bellamy lean in on instinct, she let herself go. Lifting onto her toes, she kissed him.

Her fingers grasped his face determinedly, yet as gently as she could manage. His hands made slow circles on her back as if telling her, _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._ She held on for a few moments, then pulled away, knowing they needed to leave. Just as she was going to say this, though, Bellamy started coughing again.

“Oh, not this,” she groaned, and tried to get him to sit down. Bellamy, however, had become completely unresponsive, and his coughing was getting worse. He bent over, hacking up blood and shaking. “ _Bellamy._ Bellamy, please, just help me get you laid down,” she said, doing her best to mask the panic.

His legs gave way beneath him and he crumpled. A half-strangled gasp escaped Clarke and she went to his side, desperately trying to pull him up or calm him down or _something._ The only thing she was able to do, though, was roll him over so he was lying face-up, and that was almost worse than before. Red splotched his face and his eyes were shimmering and dark, full of betrayal as if she’d done this.

And she had, Clarke realized. She had been so focused on loving him she hadn’t protected him. It was _because_ she loved him this was happening. The panic built in her chest, black and cold and enveloping, and she choked out, “Bellamy, stay with me,” because she didn’t know what else to do.

It was there, with her hands gripping his shoulders, slick with blood, and tears slipping from his eyes before burning on his fevered cheeks, and the sickening silence of the early morning, the start of a new day, when Bellamy Blake died.

Clarke felt her body burst, and there was so much pain that she felt nothing, and she was nothing, and then, as she crumpled beside him, there was nothing. Only silence.

-

“Clarke.” A feminine voice called to her gently. “Clarke, open your eyes.”

Clarke moaned fitfully, too overcome with pain to do anything. She doubted she could move ever again.

“You need to get up and go to med bay,” the voice – Abby – murmured soothingly, and Clarke felt a hand on her back.

_I am in med bay,_ Clarke wanted to mumble, but she realized, suddenly, she wasn’t. There was a pillow under her head and blankets pooled fitfully around her body, like she’d been thrashing. But how was she....

She sprang upwards—nearly hitting her mother, but she didn’t care at the moment. “Bellamy. He—”

Abby sighed. “Would you quit worrying so much? He’s fine; better than yesterday, actually, which hopefully means you won’t kill me for dragging you away from him for today.”

Clarke’s heart actually beat for what seemed like the first time and she brought her knees up to her chest, burying her face there and breathing out in something like a sob. It was a dream. But this dream...this nightmare was too real. It clung to her skin, left shivers across her spine. She almost expected to feel Bellamy’s blood on her fingers, hear the awful hacking and choking as he died. And one thing stuck out more than everything else, something with truth no consciousness could erase.

_It was because I love him._

“What have I done?” she whimpered, feeling the sobs start to rack her body.

Abby rubbed her shoulder blades with smooth, slow motions. Clarke remembered the way Bellamy’s hands had felt on her back, how his lips had felt against hers, before it had all burned down. _Because I love him._

“Clarke,” Abby murmured. “It was just a dream, okay? None of it was real. Whatever you saw, whatever happened, it was just in your head.”

Numbly, Clarke nodded, trying her hardest to believe it, but it was so hard. On the backs of her eyelids she could see the haunted way Bellamy’s eyes had glazed over, all the life and love and warmth draining out of them like they’d never been there. The blankets against her nose no longer carried his scent either, like even the real world was trying to tell her Bellamy was fading.

“Now we need you to get up, Clarke,” Abby said. “Bellamy is still here, and he still needs your help.”

That got Clarke moving. She was a danger to Bellamy, yes, but she couldn’t let her feelings stop her from helping him. No matter what it cost her, she had to be there for him. Slowly, she nodded and unfolded herself, then slid off the bed and stood, a little wobbly on her feet. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” Abby said, touching her hand to Clarke’s cheek. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Clarke said automatically, and immediately felt the words like shards of glass shifting in her sternum, pressing into her heart.

When her mom left, Clarke quickly changed and slogged out the door, realizing she couldn’t go see Bellamy yet and make sure he really was okay. There were a number of meetings and plans they had to prioritize, before they ran out of water. (That was the other thing somewhat true from Clarke’s dream—they were running out of water resources, and would be forced to make an exodus to find more soon if something wasn’t figured out.) It would take all day, which meant her normal goodnight minutes with Bellamy would be her only minutes with him. Raven was there, too, at least, and both her powerful presence and offhanded, snarky comments made it a little more worthwhile.

“Now, one of the biggest issues we’ll face with the water supply besides drinking and farming, assuming the soil is still holding,” Abby said slowly as she looked around the room, “is medical issues. We have a number of patients who still require lots of attention—” Clarke felt her hands tighten into fists involuntarily on the table, and several people looked at her as if in pity— “and we need to decide how much we can delegate to them.”

“Not too much,” a man Clarke didn’t recognize said gruffly. “If we expend too much of our resources on the sick and injured and they don’t even pull through, it will be wasted. The strong are priority.”

“ _Shut up._ ” Clarke didn’t even realize she’d started to speak until the command tore from her throat like a growl. The whole room turned to her, and she could tell by the look in Abby’s eyes it would be wise to back down, but she was far beyond caring. “I know you haven’t been on Earth for as long as the kids you threw down on a whim, but we learned something down here. To survive, you don’t take anyone for granted. _Every_ life matters.”

“But some more than others,” the man argued, “when we’re at war.”

Clarke straightened, trying her very hardest not to spit at him. _He knows nothing of war._ “Do you have family in that med bay?”

He blinked. “Well, no.”

“And if you did, would you consider their lives less than others?”

The man shrunk down visibly. “I suppose not.”

“Then I _suppose,_ ” Clarke said, not even bothering to conceal the venom in her tone, “you should keep your mouth shut, or you can join my family in the ward.”

“Clarke,” Abby said from across the room, scolding. But the look Clarke gave her was fierce and defiant, and she couldn’t even think to be sorry. Anyone who said the lives of the sick didn’t matter – especially when it was Bellamy among those sick – deserved no apologies from her.

The meeting continued awkwardly after that, and Raven leaned over to Clarke. “You’re on one, today, Griffin,” she said, grinning. “I’m loving it.”

Despite the anger and worry building up in Clarke like hot coals, she smiled. “You’re going to have to up your game, Reyes.”

Raven snorted. “I’m just getting started.”

After that, the meetings were (somewhat) bearable, but that didn’t stop Clarke from sprinting out as soon as she was released. Her feet carried her almost thoughtlessly through the corridors, into the med bay, and straight into the arms of Bellamy, who had started to sit up when he saw her barreling towards him. He was nearly thrown back with the force of her, and she knew she was probably hurting the wounds that hadn’t left when the new sickness arrived, but she let herself not care for just one moment because his breath was on her ear and his arms were moving to hold her and it meant he was _alive._

“What’s this for?” he murmured, low and warm and grating.

“Nothing.” She swallowed and forced herself to pull away. “Nothing, really. I just...nice to know you’re okay.”

“What, you can’t check in on me for twelve hours and suddenly I’m Schrodinger’s cat? Maybe alive, maybe dead?”

Clarke swallowed and shrugged, trying to act natural even though she could almost see him dying again, right here, in her arms. “Nightmares. You know.”

He frowned, features softening. “Yeah. I know.” He paused, then added, “Whatever it was, it wasn’t real, so don’t beat yourself up over anything, okay? I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

Clarke didn’t reply and instead settled herself onto the stool. “So, where were we with that Iliad story? Something with Achilles and a plan?”

He gave her a look, as if to say, _I know you’re changing the subject,_ but said, “Yes, he just agreed to Nestor’s plan about putting Patroclus in as a decoy.” He continued with the story, but Clarke could tell he hadn’t put her unease behind him. She hadn’t either, but she was _trying,_ at least; trying to just listen to the story of a friend, a patient, and think of it – him – as nothing more.

Surprisingly, Abby never came to get Clarke, so they wordlessly agreed to stay together a little longer. Clarke sat up beside him on the bed and told him about how the meetings had gone, and how there would be a group leaving soon to the nearest Grounder village (he seemed upset he wouldn’t be on it, but less so when she said she was staying too), and then, hesitantly, about the discussion on water supply.

Bellamy’s jaw tightened a little at this and he murmured, “That guy probably never dealt with injured people beyond a paper cut before he came here. Serves him right.” Then his gaze went to Clarke. “It is true we need to ration out our supplies, though. The people going through dehydration will get the larger share, probably, and the people with cuts and burns and such will need more just for their wounds, which means they might have to cut down on general water consumption.”

Clarke pursed her lips. “What about you?”

He took sudden interest in her forehead. “I’ll be fine without, since I’m doing better than before.”

“No, you deserve water as much as any other patient. More so, maybe, because you’re beat up and sick at the same time. Plus....” She glanced down then forced herself to catch his eye again. “You’re more important than the rest of them.”

Bellamy frowned and looked at her properly again. “No I’m not.”

“Yes you _are,_ ” she argued. “You’re one of our leaders, the most skilled and trained in combat, you know how things work and what we can do.”

“There are plenty of people who can do that,” he said, sighing. “If it comes to it.”

“ _Not to me!_ ” Clarke burst before she even thought about it, and Bellamy blinked, taken aback. Breathing out, she said more calmly, “I need _you,_ Bellamy. Not just some filler. _You,_ and nobody else.”

There was a moment of silence where Bellamy just stared, as if unsure how to respond or react. She couldn’t blame him. “I don’t care if you never do anything useful again in your life,” she whispered. “You just...you can’t die.” But of course he could die, she had seen it happen time and time again on the backs of her eyes. He could die just like her father, and Wells, and Finn, and Lexa. Of course he could die, because she loved him. _But how can I stop?_

She swallowed and spoke again, her voice breaking. “ _Please_ don’t die.”

Bellamy’s face softened and he reached out, fingers brushing her cheek and tucking aside a lock of hair. “I won’t.”

“You can’t know that for sure,” Clarke whispered, and she was shaking against his palm.

“No,” he admitted, “but I’m not going anywhere if I can help it.” He leaned forward, pressing his lips to her forehead softly. Clarke couldn’t bear to push him away, no matter what might happen, so she just gripped his free arm and closed her eyes, letting his nearness wash over her. After a moment, his lips moved against her skin. “I would miss you too much.”

Clarke dared to let herself dream. “I would miss you, too.”

They stayed like that for a few seconds, her hand on his arm and his lips on her forehead and their hearts thudding in their chests, before Bellamy carefully pulled away, running his thumb over her cheek briefly before dropping his hand. “You need sleep.”

A strange, useless panic flared up in Clarke’s heart, and she shook her head. “Can’t I stay here?”

“You need _real_ sleep, and you can’t do that on a stool,” Bellamy pointed out.

“There are a few extra beds,” Clarke argued. “I could use one of them.”

“Clarke—”

“ _Please,_ Bellamy,” she begged. “I can’t stay in your room anymore. All I get is nightmares and I can’t even check on you when they come and I just—”

“Wait,” Bellamy said, stopping her short. He looked utterly confused. “My room?”

Clarke flushed unwillingly. “Um—yeah. My room got taken over by patients.” _And I needed to be near you, somehow,_ she thought, but she didn’t say it. Seeing he was about to say something, she blundered on, “Come on, it can just be for one night, and I’m closer to all my patients, not just you. Please?”

He sighed. “I can’t stop you, can I?” But she caught the corners of his mouth lifting into a small smile.

“No, you can’t,” she agreed, and hopped off the table before he could decide otherwise. She took one of the extra beds (a number of people were just being kept in their rooms if their only symptoms were that of dehydration or small cuts, because everyone was starting to suffer those now) and dragged it right next to Bellamy’s. He laid down on his back slowly and she followed suit, slipping under the sheets without caring about the fact she was still in her normal clothes. Being by Bellamy would be enough to help her sleep.

There was a minute of charged silence as Clarke tried her best to not keep glancing at Bellamy. She knew it was a terrible idea to even be _near_ him, when she brought only death and horror to people as good as him, but right now she couldn’t find the strength to be anywhere else. They only had a few months left anyway, at most. If Bellamy pulled through and they figured out something with the water and the reactors, then she would figure something out. She’d learn how to keep him safe from her. But for now, she just wanted to be near him, and know he was there.

Without even thinking about it, Clarke reached her hand out in the small space between their beds. She held it there for a few moments, cursing the fact she was shaking, before she felt large, coarse fingers slip between hers. Surprised and grateful in equal measure, she turned her head and saw Bellamy looking at her with something in his eyes that made her miss his lips on her forehead.

“I’m right here, Clarke,” he whispered, squeezing her hand. He was warm and soft and kind and she loved him. It scared her, but she did. She loved Bellamy Blake, and she was starting to think maybe he loved her, too.

“Don’t leave me,” she murmured, her voice barely even a sound.

“Never will,” he replied, and as Clarke drifted off like that, with their hands intertwined and his face in her mind, she let herself believe it, even for a moment.

It was enough, for now.


	2. I'll Always Be Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Bellamy gets better, Clarke's worries get worse.
> 
> Or: a betrayal, a confession, a hope, a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of angst, whoops. But also fluff, don't worry

Bellamy missed Clarke.

Perhaps it wasn’t fair to miss her, considering he’d just seen her a few hours ago, but he did. After all the time they spent together when he first got sick, he’d gotten used to the luxury of her presence being a constant; he’d forgotten what it was like to wait for her, to try to do something else when all he seemed capable of was daydreaming about her.

It would be better, he thought, if he were allowed to actually do something. But he was still not cleared to leave – his health was rocky, and some of the burns he’d gained in the first bout of black rain hadn’t healed properly – and that meant every day was spent without responsibility, away from danger, and properly taken care of.

He _hated_ it.

The fight against the reactors was in full force, and for the first time since he’d been on the ground, Bellamy was not on the front lines. His people were out there risking their lives, doing whatever it took, and if he were anything more than a coward he’d be out there with them, medical clearance or not—

“Bellamy?”

He turned wearily and managed to give Jackson a small lift at the corners of his mouth. “Hey.”

“Feeling any different today?” he asked, and Bellamy frowned.

“Isn’t Clarke supposed to do all my check-ups?”

For some reason, this amused Jackson highly. (Whether Bellamy knew the reason, or whether his cheeks flamed pathetically at it, was highly irrelevant.) “She got caught up in another meeting. Said she would’ve liked to be here, though.”

Bellamy managed not to smile, barely. “All right. Well, the burns aren’t hurting, and I haven’t thrown up or coughed up blood in at least fourteen hours, which is a record.”

“Nice to hear,” Jackson said. “Are you still eating well? Drinking as much as you’re allowed?”

He had not, in fact, done either of those things – he couldn’t stomach any food, and water was needed for more important matters – but if Clarke knew, she would definitely flay him alive. And Jackson told Clarke _everything._ So he just muttered, “Fine.”

Jackson quickly scanned for Bellamy vitals, declared him good to go – _but not out of the med bay,_ Bellamy added bitterly – and left to help the many other patients. Jackson was doing well, Bellamy thought. He’d essentially become the only doctor with Abby and Clarke needed in more diplomatic matters, and it was a weight he bore well, without complaint or scorn or distaste.

It was approximately three hours and eighteen minutes later when Clarke finally came. She looked exhausted to the core, and he felt his heart throb painfully at the sight of her so threadbare. “You okay?” he asked, starting to stand.

She placed a hand on his shoulder and gently shoved him back down, not quite meeting his eyes. “Yeah.” She leaned on the edge of the bed opposite Bellamy’s, her knees brushing his, and said, “How about you? Any better?”

“There wasn’t any bad news today, was there?” he pressed.

Clarke sighed heavily, and he sensed a weight behind her eyes. “What news isn’t bad news, these days? But...nothing I want to talk about. Not yet.” She paused heavily and Bellamy waited, as he always did, for her to sort through her thoughts. “Just another day of meetings, right?”

Bellamy’s face darkened. “I should be in them with you.”

“Not this again, Bellamy, please,” Clarke said tiredly. “No one needs you getting worse because I dragged you along to meetings I can inform you of, and you’re doing enough already.”

His jaw clenched involuntarily. “Enough? I’m doing em >nothing.”

“You are staying safe,” she murmured. “And if nothing else, that gives me one less thing to worry about when I’m away.” There was a moment of pause, full of things Bellamy sensed Clarke wasn’t saying, then it was broken abruptly when she finally met his gaze and managed a crooked smile. “So, did you really survive without me for a whole day?”

“It was awful,” he replied, letting a grin slip through his concern without thinking.

“I expected no less,” she teased, tapping him on the nose. “You need me, right?”

“Yeah,” he agreed, grinning blatantly up at her now, “I do.”

Something colored Clarke’s tone, something rich and deep, and she moved to sit beside him on the bed. Their thighs pressed together and she fit her hand with his after a moment, warm and soft and shaky. “I do, too,” she said softly, tucking her head against his shoulder, and when he half pressed his face to her hair, she smelled like home.

It was a newer development, this dizzying jump from concerned to teasing to intimate between them, but he was getting better at it. Or, at least, he didn’t always jump in surprise when her fingers brushed his cheek momentarily, or when she rested her head on his chest, or when her eyes became dark and reflective and he could _sense_ the change, like skin sinking into water.

“Do you ever think about what will happen if we beat the reactors?” Clarke asked after a long bout of silence, and he lifted his head to stare at her inquisitively for a moment.

“What, like...not die?”

“Well, yeah, but after that. When we’re done fighting. What do you want to do then?”

Bellamy frowned. “I don’t know.”

He could sense her eyes on him for a long moment, as if she were drinking him in, then she shifted on his shoulder and said, “I want to settle down. Maybe get married, if I want to, but I’m not sure yet. Have a house, and a job, perhaps kids to chase around. Grow old.” Her eyes sparkled with images of the future—images Bellamy could not see, could not imagine. Not for himself.

“There’s so much I still need to fix....” he murmured near her hair, and he wondered if he should keep quiet, not ruin Clarke’s peaceful moment, but he continued anyway. “I don’t know if I can ever be done fighting.”

“You will,” Clarke said firmly, lifting her head to look at him properly. Shadows danced across her face, drawing sharp lines of light and dark across her features. Watching her then, knowing she somehow believed in him, Bellamy loved her so much he thought his heart would burst. “I’ll help you, and we’ll get past all of this war. Together.”

A long breath escaped him and he nodded dully, willing himself to believe her. Willing himself to believe that something good could last. “Together.”

It was a long while later when Clarke finally said she needed to go to bed. He thought about asking her to stay, like every night, but resisted. After that first night of sleeping beside him, Clarke had abruptly decided it would be better if she stayed in his room instead. Bellamy hadn’t figured out if it was because of something he’d done, and he didn’t want to bring it up for fear of scaring her away somehow, so he just held her against him for a brief moment, said goodnight, and watched her until the door shut between them.

He didn’t fall asleep that night. To be honest, he often didn’t anymore; either worry or nightmares kept any hope of sleep frustratingly out of reach. This night, though, he was kept awake by something else—a strange foreboding, a tight pit reaching from his chest to his stomach that slowly twisted his insides. There was no logical explanation behind it, so he tried to just shut it out and sleep, but when the other patients started rousing and the muffled bustling of people began, he was still very, very awake.

-

Bellamy had definitely not been sleeping.

This had been obvious to Clarke for a long time now, even before he’d gotten sick. There were always dark circles beneath his eyes, and sometimes he seemed to zone out for a few moments, missing a sentence she said or forgetting to step the right way. “It’s just the sickness,” he would tell her insistently, but she wasn’t nearly so gullible to believe an excuse so thin and flimsy. Especially when it was Bellamy trying to fool her.

If that wasn’t enough, when Clarke slipped into the med bay two days after their late-night conversation, far after everyone had fallen asleep and long before they would wake, he was alert and sitting up, flipping through a book with the light from a small, portable light. “Bellamy?” she hissed, loud as she dared. She had assumed – hoped – he wouldn’t be awake. It ruined her reason for coming at such an awkward time in the first place.

He looked up abruptly, and even from across the room Clarke could see his throat bob as he swallowed. “Clarke. What are you—it’s late.”

She came over as he set down his book (which was titled _Forgotten Heroes of the 19th Century,_ the nerd) and tried to think of something to say. “I, uh...I got worried. Nightmare. So I thought I’d check on you.” The half-lie was uncalled for, she knew, especially when the truth would’ve been much kinder to him, but she couldn’t bear the truth. She’d done so much to avoid it.

“Well, I’m fine,” Bellamy said slowly. His hair was increasingly ruffled, Clarke couldn’t help but note, and his shirt had shifted to bare his collarbone.

“Mm,” she said vaguely, forcing her eyes to meet his again (though that didn’t exactly improve her concentration). “Besides the whole, you know, not sleeping thing.”

A sigh. “It was just—”

“Bellamy Blake,” Clarke warned, “if you were about to say ‘it was just tonight,’ don’t.”

He didn’t.

The moment of silence that followed pressed against Clarke like a physical thing, and she remembered why she’d come in the first place—and, more importantly, why she needed to go. “Anyway, um, I guess I should....” she said, suddenly awkward as she took a step back.

“Wait.” The almost pleading note in Bellamy’s tone stopped Clarke, and she felt her heart thud uselessly in her chest. “Could you—”

Clarke knew what he was trying to say, and she wanted to. Oh, she wanted to. The night she had slept in the med bay with him had been the calmest night either of them had experienced in a long time, she suspected, and if they were anyone else – if _she_ were anyone else – she would’ve agreed to stay in a heartbeat. But when she looked at Bellamy, she still felt the echo of his dead eyes, the blood like paint strokes across his mouth, his hand clutching at hers before it went cold and still. She couldn’t risk his safety any further, no matter how it clawed at her heart to do so.

Besides. If she stayed, he would realize she had gone as soon as he woke up, and she wanted to be far away before he knew she had lied to him. It would be easier this way—not as easy if she could’ve checked in on him while asleep, but it was the best she had.

“Bellamy, I wish I could,” she said, willing him to believe her. “But...I can’t.”

“Why not?” he asked, equal parts pleading and concerned.

“I—” She swallowed, hard. “I’m sorry.” And before he could look at her like that, like she could burn him to ashes and he would still follow her anywhere, still hold her face in his hands and say she was worth all of it, she turned and hurried away.

Three hours later, Clarke was off.

Her pack hung unevenly on her shoulders, and an emergency pack was already tucked in the rover. She checked it was properly stocked as she crawled in through the back, then leaned her head against the wall and prepared for a long journey. A few others followed, most of whom she didn’t know, with a middle-aged woman named Iris driving. They got moving right away, music blaring, and Clarke tried to use the incessant rhythm to lure herself to sleep, before the demons found her.

This dream threw her backwards in time, back to the drop ship and the fence they built with their own hands and the fear of only what could be shot. For once, she could tell it wasn’t real life, thanks to a strange haze around everything, and the way certain things were slightly out of place.

(If only all her dreams did that.)

Looking around, she saw the camp full of life—Monroe, Sterling, and Harper huddled together by the fire, talking and gesturing widely; Octavia slipping out to see Lincoln with hair unbraided and eyes wide with excitement; the pack of younger children drawing patterns with sticks into the dirt. And there, watching it all from the door of the drop ship with a taut expression and dark, warm eyes, was Bellamy.

Clarke’s heart fluttered timidly and she moved to stand by him. Their arms brushed, a feeling not like electricity but like a blanket tucked around her shoulders; soft and warm and comfortable.

“How are you?” she asked, half-inclining her head to him.

Bellamy’s expression melted when he looked at her, and if she had an ounce less of willpower, Clarke might’ve thrown herself at him right there. “Better,” he murmured simply. “You?”

“Good.” She swallowed, trying not to think about how much space there was between them. Ten inches? Nine? She wished it was two. Two inches was when she could see every particle of life in his eyes, feel her nose brush just barely against his, fantasize about getting closer.

Clarke cleared her throat. “Do you—” But before she could finish, she heard her name being called from across the camp urgently. It was a dream, she knew, so theoretically she could’ve ignored the plea and stayed with Bellamy, but he was already drawing away from her, so she said, “Um, I better go then. Bye.” Awkwardly, she turned and trudged away, but she didn’t get ten feet before Bellamy’s voice rang out behind her.

“You didn’t say goodbye before.”

“What?” she asked without looking at him, only partially bemused.

“You didn’t say goodbye before you left for the mission. You didn’t even say you were going at all.”

Slowly, Clarke turned. Bellamy’s tone had been accusing and harsh, but his face betrayed the pained undercurrents he had attempted to conceal. “I—you would’ve stopped me, if I had told you about the mission.”

“You seem to know my decisions before I even make them,” Bellamy said, stepping forward. For the first time since when they were strangers, Clarke had the urge to step back, away from him. “Is that why it was so easy to leave after Mount Weather?”

“It wasn’t easy,” Clarke snapped, but in a way it had been. It had been easy to leave—she just had to take one step after the other. What hadn’t been easy was the first night, sleeping without a roof or a bed or any notion of safety. Or waking up and feeling each person she could not greet like a twist in her gut, and knowing that no matter how much she missed them, it would break her to go back. What hadn’t been easy was doing that every day for months, like some hollow automaton whose purpose had been decoded, their functions fried.

Leaving had been easy. Living with it, that was hard. And she was still doing it.

“It wasn’t easy to leave you,” she repeated, more firmly. “Any of them.”

“Maybe it would’ve been easier if you would’ve given me a proper goodbye,” Bellamy whispered. “A dangled promise cuts just as deep as an end.”

“But I knew I would see you again. I knew...I knew I wanted to.”

“Does _he_ know that?”

Clarke blinked, taken aback by the sudden change in tense and the fierce brokenness stealing over Bellamy’s tone. “Know what?”

“Does he know you wanted to go back? Does that me, that version of Bellamy Blake that’s sitting back in a med bay without a clue you’ve lied to him yet, know you miss him? Does he know you wanted to see him again? Does he even know he _matters_ to you?”

“Of course he does. He—I’ve told him I care, that I miss him.” Clarke was stumbling over her words, unable to say anything coherently. Bellamy _had_ to know she cared about him. It was the only thing she knew for certain.

“You also told him it was worth the risk if he died in the mountain.”

Tears burned the backs of Clarke’s eyes; she felt unsteady, as if she was falling one way while the world went the other. “I regretted it. I regret it every day.”

Bellamy stepped forward and, surprisingly, she could see the tears in his eyes, too. “You say you love me. You say you would do anything. But all you do is burn. You fail, and you forget, and you hurt, and you destroy. What kind of love is that?”

“I—I’m sorry,” Clarke choked out, stumbling backwards. She slipped and fell onto her back, and suddenly Bellamy was a looming presence over her, eyes burning with tears and hate. Broken.

“You only say sorry to the dead,” he whispered. “After it’s too late.”

“It’s not too late,” Clarke insisted, reaching for him. “I can fix this, I can—” But it was too late, and she couldn’t fix it. Bellamy stumbled back as if her gesture were a physical force; blood poured out of his mouth and he fell to his knees, eyes wide and lifeless. She scrambled to him, pulling him into her lap, feeling the panic and despair well inside her, trying to think of what to do. He convulsed in her arms, crimson painting her fingers as she touched them helplessly to his face, his chest, his neck. There was blood everywhere now, everywhere she touched him.

She knew it was a dream, it wasn’t real, he wouldn’t really die, but it didn’t matter to her. Not now, with his heart beating uselessly against her palm like an injured moth trying to fly, his blood-soaked hands shaking as they reached to tuck away a piece of her hair, gentle as ever, his mouth moving in words she couldn’t make out.

“How do I keep you safe?” she pleaded as she rocked him in her lap. Her tears were falling fast now, mixing with the blood. “How do I protect you from me when I can’t even bear to be away from you? When you refuse to leave me?” Bellamy didn’t answer, but she didn’t expect him to, and she stumbled on. “I can’t leave you, not now. I have to make you better. I have to save you. And then...and then maybe I can figure something out. I’ll figure out how to live without you, so you can live at all.”

There was a slow, trembling nod in response, then Bellamy fell still. She knew he was dead; after all the nightmares she had faced, asleep or not, she knew precisely when someone was gone. Slowly, she brought her forehead down to his, trembling. It would be the hardest thing she’d ever done, letting him go. But she couldn’t let him die. Not Bellamy. Not because of her. So she clutched him to her and whispered a single word against his skin:

“Goodbye.”

-

Something was going on. Even stuck in the med bay, Bellamy knew this much. There were clearly fewer people in camp than there were yesterday, people kept making vague comments to each other under their breaths, like “it won’t work” and “it might be too late anyway.” It seemed like the air of a mission, but there weren’t any scheduled operations beyond the normal patrols at the moment.

Plus, people seemed to be giving Bellamy an unusual amount of space. Jackson had barely spoken to him when he came to check him up, and avoided all questions Bellamy asked; Kane wouldn’t look him in the eye when he stopped in to see how the patients were faring during a moment of free time; and everyone else he came in contact with seemed nervous and uncomfortable, like they pitied him somehow.

This wouldn’t worry Bellamy much – he often felt like everyone was stepping on broken glass around him – if it weren’t for the large absence of Clarke. He hadn’t seen her since early that morning when she’d visited him, even though it was nearly dusk and usually by now there would’ve been something. A peek in the door, a message through someone else, a stolen moment to say hello. Something could be wrong, and not knowing what was eating at him.

When night finally descending, Bellamy laid in bed and pretended he was asleep just to get everyone off his back; there was no way he could even close his eyes without his worries turnings into something darker. If something had happened to Clarke—

He was stopped from finishing that awful thought by footsteps leading into the med bay and hushed voices. “We’re too low on supplies in here.”

“Yes, but what can we do? Unless more is brought back during the mission, we just have to live with what we have until an opportunity rises.”

Bellamy strained his ears to listen closer to the pair. So there was a mission.

“We might not have much time for another opportunity,” the first voice, much more feminine than the other, hissed. “And with Clarke’s party losing communications with us so early on, who knows if that opportunity is gone, too?”

Everything froze around Bellamy, and he dumbly tried to catch up to what this meant. Clarke had gone on a mission, without telling him? They had _lost communications with her?_

A few minutes later, the pair lost interest in whatever they were rummaging around for and left. A minute after that, Bellamy followed them.

He didn’t know what he was going to do, but he did know Clarke was on a mission and now she could be in trouble, and he wasn’t going to sit around and wait to see if she’d be okay. He decided he’d start at the head of Trikru (it seemed a logical spot, and nearby), and when he found her, he’d....

Well, he’d do something. It didn’t matter right now anyhow. He just had to find her.

Bellamy stumbled through the hallways dizzily. He hadn’t done this much walking in weeks, and he could feel the sickness washing over him with heightened fury; several times he had to pause as the hacking overcame his body, and every step felt like it was being taken against the current of a surging river. He used the walls and door handles as leverages to keep himself moving, perhaps a little too uncaring as to how much noise he was making. Keeping quiet would only mean more time wasted.

The decision to not move stealthily was regretted about five minutes later, when the entrance came into sight—or rather, the clump of people blocking the entrance. His friends.

“Would you like to explain yourself, or should we take a guess?” Jasper asked, arms folded accusingly. “I’ve got a few bets going already, so it better be good.”

“Just let me through,” Bellamy grumbled, trying not to look them in the eye, and took a lurching step forward before his leg conveniently gave out on him and he toppled to the ground. His friends lurched towards him – Miller half-caught him before his head smacked into the floor – and they were muttering about if he was okay and how he was stupid to be out in the halls and they needed to take him back to med bay—

“ _No,_ ” Bellamy growled as soon as that suggestion was made, and forced himself to his feet without assistance. “I’m fine, just go back to bed.”

“No,” Raven said, mocking his commanding tone. “Because you’re not fine and you’re clearly going to do something stupid if we leave you alone. What are you even _doing,_ Blake?”

“Communications are down,” he said. “There’s a group of our people out there, maybe in trouble— _Clarke_ is in trouble—”

“You don’t know that,” Miller pointed out. “Offline communications doesn’t equal immediate mortal danger. They might’ve been required to leave things behind at the summit, or had a technical difficulty.”

“And even if they were in danger,” Harper said before Bellamy could get a word in, “what would one man who is unarmed, sick, and barely even conscious, be able to do?”

“It’s _Clarke,_ ” he persisted, her name a promise on his lips. “I have to go.”

“You couldn’t have picked a worse time to go, though,” Monty said softly. “Or a worse plan. Bellamy, you could hurt yourself beyond repair out there. You could be killed.”

“Who cares?” Bellamy growled, impatient. Clarke was priority. Screw what happened to him.

There was a moment where the group absorbed his statement, then Monty whispered, “We care. Your people care. And Clarke cares. Do you really think she’d be okay with you doing this?”

“Clarke would burn herself alive before she even humored the idea of someone risking themselves to help her,” Bellamy grumbled.

“Yes,” Miller conceded, stepping forward and putting a hand on Bellamy’s arm. “But so would you.”

Bellamy meant to reply, but something about Miller’s tone of voice, the soft expression, the hand on his arm, weakened him. He sunk under his friend’s gaze, feeling small and weak and broken. And he _was_ small and weak and broken—he had just hoped he could be something better, for Clarke.

“Bellamy,” Miller pleaded. “You can’t go. We’ll make sure Clarke gets home to you safely. Just let us keep you safe first.”

There was a long moment as Bellamy fought inwardly with this choice. The burning lump of worry he’d been carrying around all day consumed him, flames licking at his insides, heat gnawing through his ribs and singeing his throat. He had failed Clarke so many times, and now he was failing her again. How could he let that happen?

But Bellamy also knew how useless he would be. They were right; his plan was as flimsy as his health, and the risk would do nothing for Clarke. So he nodded, slowly, and let them guide him back to the med bay. Staying was the best choice he could make, for now.

(It didn’t make it easier.)

The next few days were a dim, dull hazed lighted only by visits from his friends and the constant worry sparking in his chest. Each moment not knowing anything about Clarke’s whereabouts felt distinctly _wrong,_ in the same way he’d felt out of place the first day he’d woken up in his tent in the ground, far away from the only home he knew.

Once, they gained connection with Clarke’s group again, but not for long, and it hadn’t been Clarke who answered. They said something about malfunctions, and before they could get out what caused it or where they were or _anything_ of use, the line was drowned by static and went dead. It should’ve made him feel a little better, but all it did was make Bellamy miss Clarke more.

Several times, he wondered how he had survived without her for three months; any length of separation felt long now. Although, back then he was losing a friend, a partner. Now, he was losing someone he was positive he was in love with. Someone he no longer saw a life without.

On the sixth day, it was Raven who came to wish him goodnight. His friends had been taking turns doing this and that, trying to fill the gap Clarke left or at least keep his mind off it, and one of those things was coming to say hello before lights out. (He loved them for that, and he tried to make sure they knew.) It was implied to be a quick conversation with an awkward goodbye, but Raven, of course, was having none of that.

She talked to him all about her day, which he rather enjoyed with all her snarky side comments and overdone gestures and fabricated bits stuffed here and there. He expected her to ask him about his, but she seemed to realize it would be dull and depressing, so she started talking about everyone else’s days, too.

“Monty’s moonshine got messed up _badly_ somehow, and since Jasper was the first one to guzzle down a cup, he got the worst of the side effects.”

“Is that why he never dropped by? I was starting to wonder whether or not he’d gotten his head stuck in the rover window again.”

“Well, he did, actually.”

Bellamy snorted. “Are you serious? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah, and it took Miller, Harper, and me to get him out. Do you remember when he got his hand stuck in the back of the rover and Gina had to get—” Raven broke off abruptly, something slipping into her voice Bellamy suspected she didn’t want him to hear. He glanced at her and saw a stony expression he knew all too well. 

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “You can talk about her. I don’t mind.”

“It’s not you I’m worried about, Blake,” she said, shoving him with her shoulder, but only half her tone managed to be playful. The other half sounded far away; travelling dark, cold paths into a burning mountain where she had nearly died and others had been less lucky.

“Do you miss her?” he asked gently, wondering where the boundaries of this topic were. Gina and Raven had been good friends, he knew, as close as he’d seen Raven get to just about anyone.

Raven nodded slowly. “Do you?”

“Of course I do,” Bellamy said, and he did. The space where she had been was still raw, but it didn’t burn so much as ache now; ache with the memories of who they had been, and all he could see that Gina never would. She deserved better, and he had to live with the knowledge she would never get it.

“I’m sorry about what I said,” Raven said after an indeterminable length of silence.

Bellamy frowned. “Which part?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. “In Niylah’s hut. About you not being devoted to Gina.”

Memories rose unbidden in Bellamy’s mind, of dim lights and chained hands and a sickly smooth voice rolling over him, just daring him to react. “It wasn’t you who said that,” he said after a moment, focusing on his hands to drown out the images. “It was ALIE. You don’t need to apologize.”

“But it hurt you, and it came from my mouth. My knowledge. So I’m sorry.”

He nodded in response, not sure of the right words to say. They sat there for a few minutes, in a silence Bellamy couldn’t decipher, and several times he thought about ending it before dissuading the idea. Then Raven said she needed to be headed off to bed, and he quickly agreed.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she told him as she walked away.

_You don’t know what you’re talking about._ “So do I,” he replied to the empty air, and counted off the hours until he finally found some sleep.

When Bellamy woke up, it was because he felt fingers brushing across his forehead, over his hair. He stirred in confusion, and his groggy mind couldn’t quite connect the pieces, but when his eyes fluttered open and he caught sight of the tangled blonde strands and ocean-deep eyes shining, they fit together immediately. _“Clarke?”_

She smiled, and he wondered if it was tears he saw brimming in her eyes. “Good morning, Bell.”

Her voice proved it completely; she was _here._ He was home. Bellamy scrambled to hug her in a mess of tangled limbs, but when they were finally embracing there was never anything more natural to him. He pressed his cheek to hers and stroked a hand over her hair as if to say, _I’m here, you’re here, we’re together, it’s okay._ “You’re back,” he murmured breathlessly, trying to memorize the feeling of her against him, so warm and comfortable and close.

“I’m back,” she agreed, and she sounded so relieved he could hardly stand it.

“Are you okay?” he asked now, pulling back, because he hadn’t gotten a good look at her yet and he wanted to be sure.

“I’m fine,” she assured him as she looked over his face, like she was reminding herself of the details she’d already forgotten. (He knew the feeling.)

“In that case,” Bellamy said, feeling something hard and bitter slide into his chest beside the relief, “what were you _thinking?”_

Clarke blinked. “What?”

“You left on a mission without telling me you were going or that it even existed. And I was just supposed to be okay with that?”

“I didn’t want you to worry—”

“ _Worry?_ ” He might’ve laughed, except it wasn’t funny, none of it was, and he was so angry and hurt and confused it clouded everything around him. “Clarke, worrying is what I would’ve done if I had sent you off on some assignment properly. What I just suffered for six days was much worse than that. And because what? You don’t trust me enough to tell me things anymore?”

“Bellamy, of course I trust you,” Clarke snapped, seeming offended. “I just—”

“You just what, Clarke? Didn’t want me to know in case something happened?” He crossed his arms, digging his nails into the skin, and pretended the sting swelling there hurt more than the pitiful thud of his heart. “So what, you trust me enough to risk my life, to go on missions that hold our people and the world in the balance, to risk _your_ life on top of everything else, but dealing with a week of uncertainty is too much?”

Clarke looked utterly stunned for a moment, and dimly Bellamy was aware a few of the patients had woken up from their sharp tones, but he couldn’t care less. “I’m sorry, okay?” she admitted, but she sounded angry, not repentant. “I was trying to do what I thought was best, and I was wrong, I messed up, but you can’t blame me for doubting how you’d feel about a week-long mission in unsafe territory when you worry about _everything_ concerning me, and I don’t understand why you act like you’d care less about the end of the world than me being at risk—”

“It’s _because I love you!_ ”

Clarke reacted first. Her lips parted in awe and she took a stumbling step backwards before Bellamy fully processed what he had said—what he had _done._ It was out now. No more hiding his feelings behind the guise of partnership; no more glossing over the sly comments and teasing expressions his friends threw at him; no more balancing on the in-between, wondering if he could get the courage to tell her when it could ruin everything.

Part of Bellamy was almost relieved, to lose that weight. But mostly he was terrified of what else he might lose in the process.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but Clarke beat him to it, eyes wide and disbelieving. “You— _love_ me?” She seemed to find it hard to say the word, and Bellamy nearly cringed.

“I—” _I love you more than anything, and I will never stop, and if I lost you I would forget what it meant to breathe or feel my heart beat, so if you love me or you don’t please tell me, because I have to know._ “I do. But even if I didn’t—even if I didn’t, it wouldn’t matter, because I deserve the truth from you. After everything we’ve been through, after everything we’ve done and every promise we’ve made, I deserve to not be cast aside for my ‘own good,’ I deserve—”

“You can’t.”

The words were quiet, almost nonexistent, but so charged with panic they caught Bellamy immediately. He met her eyes; she looked shaken, about to shatter into pieces. “Can’t what?”

“I can’t—you can’t love me,” she said, half disbelieving and half horrified.

A chill ran across Bellamy’s body; the same sensation he’d gotten when he realized he couldn’t stop her from leaving him at Camp Jaha. For a moment he did nothing but stare, forcing his lungs to take in air and giving his heart a moment to remember that even if Clarke didn’t love him, didn’t want him, it still had to keep beating.

When he finally spoke, all he could manage was a strangled, “Clarke—”

“I’m so sorry, Bellamy,” Clarke whispered, sparing him the task of deciphering what he could say, and he realized she looked as broken as he did. The fact only cut him further. “I didn’t mean to put you in danger like this. I just wanted to keep you safe, but I—” A tear trickled down her cheek, reminding him of the drops burning on the edge of his eyes, and she spent several seconds trying to decide how she wanted that sentence to end. Then she must’ve decided there was no way to finish it, or at least no good way, so instead she clumsily wiped tears from her cheeks and walked out.

Bellamy stared numbly as she left. He didn’t say anything; didn’t ask her to explain what she meant, or beg her to stay, or try to convince her he could be better. He just stood there, unmoving, unbreathing, as if pretending time was frozen would trick it into turning back.

-

Clarke knew what it was like to be hollow. She had witnessed hundreds of deaths, dozens of them people she knew, loved. She had lived on her own, in constant fear, guilt, and loneliness, for three months. She had watched civilizations crumble between her fingertips and waited patiently for her own life to sputter out into ashes. Hollow was all she was anymore.

So why did the feeling still hurt so much?

She had avoided Bellamy since she came back from the summit, which was in some ways incredibly simple, since he was still confined to med bay. But in every other way, it was _hard._ Unbelievably hard. Staying away from him meant ignoring every instinct she had, because she worried about if he was getting worse or if he had eaten or if he was scared; because she wanted to hold his hand and comfort him and keep him safe; because she needed him and his advice and his solace; because no matter what she _loved_ him, more than she could bear, and she wanted to show it.

“What happened with you two?” Raven hissed into her ear at breakfast a few days later.

Clarke bristled. She knew people were bound to notice the change, but she had hoped they wouldn’t _talk_ about it. “We’re just working things out, okay?”

Raven huffed and leaned back, folding her arms across her chest. “Working things out generally involves talking to each other, Griffin.”

“Well—” Clarke began, trying to build an argument, but even she knew her excuse was too thin to support anything. She sighed heavily and hung her head. “I don’t know what to say to him.”

“How about the truth?”

“The truth? Like how I can’t even look at him without seeing him broken and lifeless? How I’m terrified I’m going to kill him, or worse? How I can’t see any way out of this situation that doesn’t end in him hurt, no matter how hard I try?” Her voice was too broken, too sharp; like glass shards falling out of her mouth. “Is that what you want me to tell him?”

Raven shrugged and regarded Clarke with a soft, knowing gaze. “Tell him you love him, too.”

Clarke considered it for hours that night as she lay in bed, unable to sleep. She _could_ tell him; after all, it wouldn’t change anything for her by saying it aloud. But the idea of holding those fragile words out to Bellamy after everything she’d done to him, of letting him believe loving her would work when it could only end with his bloody heart in her hands, made her unsure.

Then she ground her teeth together in frustration. How was it that she had enough courage to kill hundreds for her people, to make death cower and shake, but not to tell Bellamy she loved him when she knew he loved her, too? It was pitiful.

The next day, Clarke set out as soon as she had a spare moment, wearing Bellamy’s shirt as—a comfort, maybe? A reminder? Or maybe she just wanted an excuse to wear it in public. (His shirts were way comfier than hers.) She went right to the med bay, repeating her mantra under her breath as she went so it would be easier to say for real. _Bellamy, I’m sorry for running out. I was just scared, and it isn’t your fault. I love you, too._

At the door, she paused, wondering if she could really do this. There was no turning back if she did. _But maybe I don’t want to,_ she thought stubbornly, and marched inside—before stopping dead in her tracks.

Bellamy wasn’t there.

She took a desperate glance around, just in case she was mistaken, but no, Bellamy was definitely gone. Heart already pounding, she questioned every patient that was awake (not many), but none of them knew where he was. “I think he must’ve been released or something,” one of them said. “I know they were talking about it, at least.”

That didn’t make Clarke feel any better. Bellamy wasn’t anywhere near healthy enough to just be released, and surely someone would’ve talked to her about it first; if nothing else, she was his doctor and his partner. She thanked the patient anyway and left, intent on finding Bellamy before...well, soon.

First, she checked his room. It was empty, but not untouched—the drawers she never remembered to close had been fixed, the bed was made, and her once strewn-about clothes had been folded and placed in a neat pile on the chair. Clarke imagined Bellamy walking in, an amused smile gracing his features when he saw what a mess Clarke had made of his room. She imagined his careful hands tucking in the sheets, picking up her clothes and examining them before placing them in a stack. She imagined the soft, almost loving way he would do all of it, and she had to take a moment to just stand there and let her heart prickle gently at the thought.

Once she came to her senses, Clarke went to the cafeteria (not there), then the sentry stations (nowhere to be found, but at least the sentries knew he hadn’t left), then the meeting rooms (empty of any tall, freckled, broken-eyed men); on and on with the same result—no Bellamy. Her heart was thudding so insistently now she was sure there would be bruises on her chest, and it was becoming increasingly hard to focus on where to look next with the buzzing swarm of thoughts crowding her mind. “Where did you _go?_ ” she growled to a lamp, frustrated.

“Where did who go?” a voice asked, and Clarke jumped.

“Uh—” She turned and saw the lithe, slight figure of her mother. “Bellamy. I can’t find him.”

Abby blinked. “Why don’t you check the med bay?”

_I don’t have time for this._ “Where do you think I started? He’s not there.”

“I would check again,” her mother said vaguely, glancing at the clock. “He should be back from exercising by now.”

“Excuse me?” Clarke asked, half bemused and half accusing.

“Exercising,” Abby said, with utmost patience. “I told him to only go out for a few hours, to see how it went—”

“You _what?_ ” Clarke exploded.

Abby sighed in that way mothers do when they’re about to explain something to a small child. “I said I—”

“I heard what you said,” Clarke spat. “I was just giving you an opportunity to pretend you didn’t.”

“Clarke, I let him walk around outside, not dive headfirst into a barrel of acid,” Abby argued, and the sharp tone of her voice suggested she was getting irritated, too. Good.

“Without my permission, or even _telling_ me. And clearly before it’s safe for him to be outside.” Abby started to interject, but Clarke pressed, “You say it was inhalation of black rain that caused the sickness, but you don’t know, not for sure, and you could’ve exposed him to something.”

There was a long moment of silence, then Abby just sighed and said, “Are you going to keep yelling at me or are you going to go see Bellamy?”

Clarke narrowed her eyes. “I think I’d do fairly well at both.” Then she turned and walked away.

Well, she walked until Abby was out of sight. Then she was running.

When she saw Bellamy sitting in the med bay, swinging his legs on the side of the bed a little as if he were an actual five-year-old, she nearly threw herself at him. But she paused, steeled herself, and walked up to him normally. “Bellamy,” she said, failing miserably to be casual.

His head shot up and his eyes widened a little in an expression she couldn’t quite place. “Clarke.”

Uncertainly, she began, “Uh, nice to...nice to see you’re okay.”

Bellamy paled slightly and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I would’ve told you I was going out, but I....” He swallowed, glanced away. “I was going to surprise you. Sorry.”

Resisting the urge to touch her fingers to her heart, just to warn it not to keep fluttering like that, Clarke said, “I wish you would’ve talked to me about it first.”

Something darkened in Bellamy’s gaze. “I could say the same to you.”

Instinctively Clarke opened her mouth to argue about how what she did was different, before realizing it wasn’t, really. And besides, she hated getting into unnecessary fights with Bellamy. So instead she let out a breath and said, “How was your walk?”

Bellamy blinked. “What?”

“How was the walk? You know, exercising. Being outside, away from this room.”

“Oh.” He smiled a little, and Clarke felt a strange surge of pride in her at the sight. “It was...well, it was good. The air’s so much cleaner and fresher, which is saying something considering the world’s ending.” His smile flickered for a moment, and without thinking Clarke jumped up beside him on the bed and grabbed his hand loosely. They met eyes for a moment, then Bellamy continued on as if there hadn’t been any pause. “I tried to go see people I hadn’t seen in a while, and explore a little bit, because even after all these months I’m still not quite used to the place. Mostly, though, I just watched the trees and did...nothing. Is that weird?”

“No,” Clarke murmured, leaning into him. He stiffened slightly, maybe surprised, and she froze. Did he not want her so cuddly with him, after she brushed his confession aside so quickly? Was he worried she was leading her on, or just suddenly uncomfortable with her nearby?

Swallowing hard, Clarke squeezed Bellamy’s hand and then released him, slipping off the table. “Um, I’d better...I don’t want to keep you.”

“Okay,” he said, and she forced herself to pretend she couldn’t hear the break in his voice when he spoke. _It’s not supposed to be easy._

She started to walk away, but when she nearly reached the door Clarke turned back. “Bellamy?” He looked up, startled, hope and panic mixing in his eyes. “I’m glad.”

“About what?” he asked, and the way he looked at her, so unsure, like he couldn’t think of anything about him she could be _glad_ about, felt like a knife twisting slowly in her heart.

She tried to smile. “That you got to go outside, and be happy for a day.” She paused, swallowed. “And I’m glad you’re feeling better. I...I don’t like seeing you hurt.”

“Thank you,” he said, smiling a little, and if Clarke hadn’t been able to see the pain like burnt-out stars just behind his eyes, she might’ve believed it was genuine.

-

One week later, several things happened. The first was that they learned there was a storm coming, much worse than any of the small black rain bouts they’d had before (if you could call those small). This spurred a number of meetings, plans, and communications with all friendly clans to work on an evacuation strategy. On top of all this chaos, Bellamy got medically released—sort of. Jackson’s exact words had been, “It’s useless to keep you in here when we’ll have to move out so soon, so you’re free to go.” He was now allowed to eat in the cafeteria, wander the hallways, help pack up the camp, and attend meetings, and as long as he checked in the moment he felt overly sick, as well as a general check once a day, he got to sleep in his own room, too.

This was where things started to get complicated.

Bellamy had assumed Clarke had moved back to her own room when the patients taking residence there had been granted permission to do the same, so he walked right in to find Clarke asleep in his bed. He actually froze for a moment, staring at the way the faint light of the hallway fell over her softened features, like sunlight on the water. She looked so... _comfortable,_ half tangled in the thick blue blanket with her toes peeking out of the end, and he knew there was no way he was waking her. This was the only place he had to sleep in besides the med bay, though, and he didn’t want to be there again. That place smelled of bleach and death, but here the air tasted of paint and dirt and soap and sweat. Like Clarke.

Like home.

He set the medical supplies he’d been required to bring on the side table and considered his options. Normally, the best option would be the bed, but he wasn’t sure that would be the best idea in this situation. He didn’t want to wake Clarke up or make her uncomfortable, and besides, there was no way he’d sleep at all that close to her; their breaths mingling, her hair falling over her eyes, a hand brushing his....

Yeah, not the bed. So the chair was probably best. Bellamy considered changing for a moment, but felt awkward doing it with Clarke five feet away, so he just took off his jacket and boots and sunk into the chair. At least it was comfortable; he’d put an extra pillow on the wooden seat and the slotted back felt surprisingly good against his aching limbs.

For hours he remained like that, sitting in the chair with his eyes closed, occasionally checking that Clarke was okay, then pretending for a little while more he could fall asleep. And he might’ve, if the mumbling hadn’t started.

At first it was just that—mumbling. Random words Clarke uttered in the midst of whatever dream she was having. Bellamy caught a few – _hurt_ and _please_ and _goodbye_ – but it didn’t form anything intelligible until she slipped into sentences. “I didn’t mean it. No...no, you don’t understand. It wasn’t my fault— _no!_ ”

The sharp way Clarke said the last word pierced Bellamy, and he scrambled out of the chair to go to her bedside, though he wasn’t sure what to do. Sometimes waking people from nightmares could be just as dangerous as having them. “Please, I’ll do anything...stop it, just stop, I can fix it...I can fix you... _Bellamy,_ please!”

“I’m here,” he said urgently, instinct kicking in at the sound of his name. Then, hesitantly, he smoothed down the tangled waves on the side of her head and repeated, “I’m here, Clarke. I’m not going anywhere.” Clarke thrashed and mumbled a string of please’s and no’s, and he began to stroke her hair back from her face, pretending his voice and hands weren’t shaking with worry. “Shh, Clarke, it’s okay. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

Slowly, she calmed; panicked words no longer fell from her mouth, and her breathing turned even and soft. Bellamy tucked one last stray hair behind her ear, sighed in relief, and slipped back into his chair, where he sat until morning.

Clarke woke earlier than he expected her to, considering how deeply exhausted she always was. He was watching her when her eyes opened, bleary and soft from sleep, and felt that thing in his chest, all warm and fluttery and hopeful.

As soon as Clarke’s gaze focused on him, though, the feeling dissolved. “Bellamy?” she croaked, scrambling to a sitting position. “What are you doing here?”

He gripped the arms of the chair and swallowed hard around the lump in his throat. “I—I’m supposed to sleep in here now, but you were already here, and I didn’t want to disturb you....”

“So you just slept on the chair?” Clarke asked with an expression he couldn’t hope to describe.

“Well, what else would I have done?” Bellamy asked, and Clarke opened her mouth as if to suggest something before closing it again. “Anyway, I’m sorry for intruding, and I guess I’ll just let you get ready....”

“Wait,” Clarke said, scrambling from the bed, and he did as she said, but less because she asked him to and more because he _saw_ her, properly. Saw the way her sleep-mussed hair fell over her face and accented the soft lines of her jaw and cheekbones; how the exhausted edge in her eyes had lessened to reveal something vulnerable and warm; how the shirt she wore had shifted slightly over the bare skin of her shoulder and wrinkled hopelessly during the night. _His_ shirt, he realized; the blue one from all those months ago, when they were still learning about each other, still wondering if they would fit instead of clash.

Forcing his eyes back to Clarke’s face, Bellamy said weakly, “What is it?”

She flushed. “I just—you weren’t intruding. It’s your room, technically. You don’t have to go.”

“Don’t you want me to?” Bellamy asked before he could stop himself. Clarke stared at him openly, unspeaking for a moment, and he shifted his weight. Why was she looking at him like that, as if he had said something preposterous? “I thought you would want some space, after....”

“ _Bellamy._ ” The way she said his name, frustration and worry and sympathy and shock and disbelief all intertwined, stopped him. “How could you think—I never wanted you to leave.”

He frowned. “But you said I couldn’t—” The word stuck in his mouth, but she pressed forward before he could force it out.

“Because I was worried you would get _hurt._ Not because I didn’t want you around.” She dragged a hand across her face. “Don’t you ever pay attention, Bellamy?”

“Of course I do. You just sent crappy signals.”

“What? No I—”

“You avoided me for days after coming back from the summit, a mission you wouldn’t tell me about. Even when you finally spoke to me again, you ran off and started making every excuse to not see me or speak for the smallest time frame possible. Every time we talk, it’s like you expect me to burst, or break, or something.” He listed off each item as if they were bullets on a to-do list and not individual darts digging into his chest. “So what about that says you want me around?” _And why would you anyway?_

Clarke looked visibly taken aback. “I thought if I stayed away, maybe...maybe you’d be safer.”

“ _Safer?_ Clarke, I’m never safer without you.” He was appalled more than anything.

She sighed in a way that made him think she was detaching a part of herself. “Everyone I go near is destroyed, Bellamy. If I get too close to you, you’ll burn.”

The fear in her eyes was palpable, but suddenly Bellamy realized why it was there, and he felt himself melting. “I’m not that fragile, Clarke.”

“I’ve killed hundreds, been the reason for hundreds more,” Clarke whispered, wrapping her arms around herself in a feeble attempt at comfort, or maybe protection. “I’m Wanheda, commander of death. Killing is all I know how to do anymore.”

“No.” His voice rang out, firm and clear, and Clarke’s eyes lifted to his as if drawn to it. “Wanheda is an image, Clarke. The Grounders gave you the title, but it’s not who you are.”

“Then who am I?” she asked, desperately.

Taking courage, Bellamy moved forward and took hold of her arms. “You’re Clarke Griffin. Clarke, who trains to be a doctor, to _heal._ Clarke, who leads without complaint or scorn, who bears more burdens than entire civilizations. Who told me that despite everything, I was more than a monster.” He couldn’t stop looking at her, and somehow she was looking _back;_ her eyes were sharp and clear and deep and he could feel himself falling into them. Gently, he rested his forehead against hers and ran his hands up and down her arms. She was shivering. “You’re the best person I know, Clarke, and you are more than your mistakes.”

Clarke was silent for a long time, and when she finally spoke her voice was fragile and thin. “What if I hurt you?”

“I don’t care.”

“Don’t care?” She pulled away, somewhere between indignant and scolding. “Bellamy, I would rather burn alive than know I was responsible for your pain. I care, and I can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.”

“So to guarantee my safety, you broke my heart,” he murmured, feeling the sting of tears begin. Before Clarke could interrupt, he stuttered out, “But the thing is, Clarke, you can’t guarantee anything, not down here. Whether you stay away from me or not, I’ll always be in danger. Neither of us can protect the other from afar. We’re safer together, Clarke. We’ve always been.”

“I want to believe you,” Clarke said, holding onto his gaze like it was the only thing keeping her upright. “But....” A pause. “I’m just so scared.”

“It’s okay to be,” he replied. “Just don’t let the fear win.”

“How do I beat it?”

Bellamy drew close and cradled her face in his hands. “Just say it. Say whatever you need to say. Don’t let the fear stop you.”

She nodded and drew in a few slow, stuttered breaths before she whispered, “I love you.”

Somehow, despite everything, Bellamy still felt the whir of surprise run up his back at the words. “Are you positive?” he asked, running his thumbs over her cheeks in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “I don’t want you to say it just because I did. I want you to mean it.”

Clarke looked at him for a long moment and smiled. It was a frightened smile, but a soft one. A hopeful one. “I mean it. Bellamy, I _mean_ it.” And when Bellamy’s hands fell from her face in quiet awe, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him close. He clung to her and paid no mind to the tears slipping down his face, because for once they were as much out of relief as fear.

“I love you,” Clarke repeated into his shoulder, her voice muffled but sure. “I’m sorry for being scared. I just don’t want to lose you.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he murmured, lifting his head from the crook of her neck so she could understand him. Her hair brushed against his cheek, warm and familiar, and for the first time in a while, Bellamy felt something like peace. “I’m not going anywhere, okay? Not if you let me in.”

“I will,” she promised. “I’ll keep you safe.”

“I love you, too,” he murmured, because he knew what she meant, and because holding her there, knowing he wasn’t alone and would never be, he felt his love for her so strongly it was like an ache.

They stood like that for a long time, his hand on her hair and her lips on his shoulder and their hearts beating steadily together. For once, there was no rush. There were less than three months until the world ended, but together, they had all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!!! :) I love compliments as well as criticisms, don't be afraid to lay it all on me, haha
> 
> Also there WILL be more, I'm almost positive, so if you like that idea feel free to tell me :)
> 
> Come cry with me on tumblr @sherlockvowsontheriverstyx


End file.
